


The Hand Can Reach

by Trobadora



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-08
Updated: 2008-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-06 19:43:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trobadora/pseuds/Trobadora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>For all the things that are beyond his reach now, this he still can have.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hand Can Reach

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [New Year challenge](http://community.livejournal.com/wintercompanion/26705.html) at [Winter Companions](http://community.livejournal.com/wintercompanion/).

**THE YEAR 200,100 - SATELLITE FIVE aka THE GAME STATION**

_JACK (leaving): See ya in hell.  
ROSE: He's gonna be alright ... isn't he? _

The burn of Jack's lips on his own remains, long after the man himself has gone, a reminder of something that's beyond his reach now.

He could have reached out at any moment, but he didn't. And now it's too late; they're not getting out of this alive, and they both know it.

Silently, he begins to work, Rose by his side.

He can sense she has something on her mind. A time paradox, it turns out to be. A _time paradox_! Shouldn't she have learned her lesson? But no, that isn't fair. She's so young; of course she thinks there must be a solution. Just when he himself begins to realise that there isn't. That he'll never make it in time.

What choice does he have? He can't save the world. He can't destroy the Daleks, no matter how hard he tries, no matter what he sacrifices, all in vain. But he can save _her_: the past is a different country, and she will be safe there.

As the TARDIS fades before his eyes, as her screams fade into nothing, as the one thing he _can_ protect is forced to safety, he stands still, breathing. Just breathing, for a moment.

Some would say he loves her more because he wants to keep her safe. Some would say he loves her less because he won't let her stand by his side. The truth is, he loves her differently. And he's sworn to himself that she won't end up like him, like Jack - no matter what, no matter how long she travels with him, she won't end up cynical. That if by some miracle they survive this, he'll see to that.

He's seeing to that now.

Jack, on the other hand...

If he still had the chance, he wouldn't hesitate to reach out. But it's too late; Jack is as good as dead. It doesn't matter any more whether or not he dares.

~*~

**THE YEAR 2008 - LONDON**

He sweeps out of the door. Behind him, he can faintly hear Jack's wry voice: "You too, huh?"

His step doesn't falter; he doesn't let it. He will _not_ be made to think about this now.

Or ever, if he has a choice. He's put the thought away a long time ago.

Yes, he knows.

Evidence to the contrary, he isn't blind. He knows. The man thinks he doesn't even see him, but he knows.

That doesn't mean he has to think about it, does it?

_Oh, who am I kidding?_ Of course it does.

Normally, it's complications that hold him back. Not worth it. Stupid apes, always expecting too much. More than he can give. Some good-natured flirting – he's rarely let it go beyond that.

It would be so easy, though. With Jack, it would be easy.

Jack is easy - not in the "will sleep with anything" sense, though that too, of course, but Jack is the least demanding lover he can imagine. He takes each moment for what it is, takes what's offered, without question, without expectation. He'd never expect anything beyond the moment. Beyond friendship.

But the Doctor's already fallen down on that.

Common courtesy, that should be, of course: not leaving your friend behind when he's died for you and been resurrected. Not running away in blind terror. Not abandoning him, ignoring him for well over a hundred years.

Jack deserves better.

He's been forgiven for that, though, so easily, without even so much as an apology. The Doctor knows he owes him one, but can't bring himself to offer it. Jack already has too much of a hold on him, exactly because he's so willing to let go. Better to keep him firmly at arm's length.

But even with so little given, all Jack's bitterness, his anger and despair - wiped away, forgiven, just like that, all for a flimsy explanation and a moment of connection. Jack's never asked anything of him. It's what would make this so easy.

It's why he really shouldn't do this.

People who ask, people who want things from him – oh, it's easy, holding himself apart. A bit of casual cruelty, appearing just oblivious enough that they won't hold it against him – that always works well. But Jack expects nothing. Flirts for the fun of it, and doesn't take it to mean anything when the Doctor flirts back. Won't expect anything of him if they do sleep together.

Kindred spirits, they are: have something for a while, let it go, move on. It's what time means - and they both understand it well, seasoned time travellers that they are. Whether it's necessity or inclination, he's not sure: there is no permanency, not for him.

Except perhaps now.

He can save the Master; he knows he can. He can pull Martha's family out of the mess her connection to the Doctor has pulled them into. He can save the Earth from whatever scheme the other Time Lord has concocted. He can do it all; he's sure he can.

And if he dares...

If he dared...

Jack: adaptable, resourceful, foresighted - and able to enjoy the moment for what it is like no one he's ever known. This, this is what enabled him to live through all of what he's been through and come out still so very much himself. Indomitable. Beautiful.

Why not have this?

Now, with Jack what he is, but still so very much _who_ he is –

Why not, indeed? Because he can. He _can_.

He can have anything, can't he?

He could, if he dared.

But he doesn't: he'd make a lousy god. And he's made himself forget how to dare.

~*~

**CHRISTMAS 2008 – LONDON**

Four people. Four out of thousands. What a day. What a _year_. Can't it be over? Couldn't it just be over? Hasn't he been through enough, this past year, to warrant a respite? Instead, imminent destruction again, death and chaos again, and he unable to prevent it, _again_.

He grimaces at his thoughts. No point dwelling on it; time to be off again.

In a moment.

As soon as he catches his breath.

He plunges his hands into the pockets of his coat and leans against the console.

What's that in his pocket? He pulls out the string his fingers just got tangled in. There's something attached to it - -

Oh.

The key. Not his only TARDIS key, of course. This is the one he modified just before it all went to hell. Only a few days ago, in linear time – an eternity, for him. He remembers standing in that hall, working at that table, Jack and Martha beside him... he remembers the hope of those hours, when he still believed it could all turn out well.

When he still thought he could have it all.

Save the Master.

His plans for what should happen after that had been vague, but saving him, that should somehow set everything right.

How naïve he could be, sometimes, for a Time Lord. Especially one on his tenth life.

But he'd been so full of hope, that night – everything seemed to be within his grasp. He'd even been close to…

No, better not go there. Just look what trying to recapture his optimism has done on the _Titanic_ – failure again, obviously, because that is all he seems capable of. Astrid, dead. The Von Hoffs, dead. Thousands of passengers, dead. And for what? _Money._

He tries to shake off the thought. All the thoughts.

But his mind, once pointed in a direction, can't seem to let go: that night, just before they went off to try and save the Master ... so close, he'd been so close. So close to reaching out. And now his mind can't help worrying at the question.

He still could, of course. But why should he? One more thing to mess up.

And after everything, does it even matter? Does Jack even have anything to offer to him now?

He hadn't been able to save the Master. He hadn't saved humanity, hadn't spared them the year of hell. Just like he hadn't saved Astrid, or the passengers of the _Titanic_. He hadn't saved Jack from being tortured for a year, or Martha from having to travel through the horrors of the Master's world.

He'd set it right in the end, right enough, at least – but first, he'd failed. And in the end, he'd _still_ failed at the most important part: saving the Master.

Doesn't he deserve the comfort of a consolation prize?

Only ... is that what Jack is? A consolation prize? He should be. By all rights, he should be – not a Time Lord, after all, never an equal, never someone who could understand.

And yet...

And yet...

And yet, Jack understands too much already; has come too close to the Doctor's secrets. Has lived too long, too non-linear a life not to know a few things. Safer to stay away, or to keep their interaction superficial if it becomes necessary.

Of course, it's not easy to avoid a universal constant. It's everywhere, everywhen. The best you can do is ignore it.

Jack, though, deserves better than to be ignored. And for all the things that are beyond his reach now, for a while yet, this he still could have.

The last year was a horror, but he could start the next one with something better. At least he could try.

If he dared, he could have it.

For the both of them, then…

If he dares.

~*~

**NEW YEAR'S EVE 2008 – CARDIFF**

In the split second before the TARDIS materialises, he almost changes his mind.

He doesn't do this.

He doesn't return. When he leaves something behind, it's for good. He moves on and doesn't look back, that's how it _works_.

Why, then, is he returning for Jack?

But then again, he never did leave Jack behind, did he? He _ran_ from the man. Fled, in a way he'd never fled anything or anyone before, horrified and afraid.

Meeting Jack again, he'd seen how deep his denial went, how pointless it was. Jack _is_ \- there is no getting around it, only closing his eyes to the fact. To the man.

Jack, like other companions, had chosen to leave in the end – not to come with him.

And that should have been the end of it, by all rights: no more running, just an ordinary good-bye, and the Doctor should not even have thought of returning.

But he had, and he is now.

The TARDIS materialises, and he steps out: Jack's bedroom, and the man himself giving the TARDIS and the Doctor a quizzical look.

"Doctor?"

"Captain."

He smiles. It seems he can't help himself, in Jack's company: it's too damn hard not to smile at the man. Not to be comfortable and at ease, despite the gut-twisting impossibility of his existence.

He couldn't help himself: he'd _had_ to return.

Jack takes a step towards him, smiling. "Not how I pictured getting you into my bedroom, I have to admit." A full-blown grin now - not a smirk, though that is lurking just beneath the surface, but a grin, inviting him to share the joke.

"It's a dream come true for you, isn't it?" he teases. "Nice place, by the way." Full of sarcasm. "Though I have to say - do you always wear your coat in the bedroom?" And he takes a step closer himself.

Jack glares at him. "I just got in!"

Jack.

Impossible thing that he is, that wasn't even what drew him back. It's only what kept him away for so long, stupidly trying to avoid the inevitable. How do you avoid an immortal man? How do you avoid a universal constant? The universe will always catch up with you, eventually.

Another step closer, both of them this time. Still smiling.

Yes, this is it: not returning for a companion at all. He doesn't _do_ that, and for good reason. But Jack has never been one of his companions: a time traveller in his own right, and far too much of an equal even when was mortal.

He hadn't travelled with someone like this in a very, very long time.

Someone he didn't have to protect.

He remembers the Game Station, and sending Rose home to her mother. She had returned, of course, but not by his choice. He'd wanted to see her safe.

Jack?

Jack, he'd wanted by his side, fighting.

Dying.

As he'd known only too well: They weren't going to get out of this alive. And neither of them had.

He'd known that - they both had known that - and he hadn't sent Jack away.

Not because he was expendable, not because he cared less, but because he was _Jack_: not someone to be protected.

His responsibility, certainly - but not his charge.

He'd let him choose to fight, and die - he'd been the first in a long time the Doctor had been willing to see die. Irony of ironies, of course, that this was the man who'd ended up coming back from the dead, never again able to die at all.

They are standing, now, in front of each other: have moved closer, closer, until the lapels of their coats are almost touching.

Still smiling at each other.

The Doctor looks into Jack's smiling eyes. They're almost of a height, though Jack's bulkier frame sometimes makes him feel slight.

He knows, for all that Jack is willing to meet him, he wouldn't make the first step. It has to be him.

So he does: reaches out, winds a hand into the man's hair, draws Jack's face to his - lips against lips, just for a moment, and then holds still, their faces less than an inch apart.

Still, for a moment, the both of them, unmoving.

Then Jack pulls him close, bodies hard against each other, lips meeting - not gently, this time, but with need, with passion. Lips, tongues, teeth - claiming, possessive, though who is possessing whom, it would be hard to say.

Finally, they come apart, their harsh breathing the only sound.

Then Jack pushes him away a bit, enough to look him in the face. "Wouldn't have expected that, from you."

He gives an amused snort. He hadn't expected it from himself either.

"Not that I'm complaining, mind you," Jack continues, conversationally, even as he draws him towards the bed.

The Doctor follows. And just like that, the distance is crossed.


End file.
